Monday, March 17, 2008

The Story of Henry Johnson

They say there ain’t any real men left in the world. Well, I never was too sure who “they” were, but I reckon’ I’ll have to agree with them on this one. Still, I take comfort in knowing I bore witness to the last of the real men. And Brother, believe me when I tell you the good Lord saved the best for last.

I never talked to anyone who was too sure ‘bout where Henry Johnson came from. Never found anyone who knew much concerning his folks or his schooling or how he came to show up at the Big Bread Toaster Factory back in April of nineteen-ninety-three. No, there ain’t a single story going back that far, and Brother, I’ve heard just ‘bout every story there is to tell when it comes to poor ol’ Henry Johnson.

See, just so happened that he showed up there at the factory back in April of nineteen-ninety-three, and he sat himself right down at a work bench, and he went to work. And from as far as anyone could tell, that Mr. Johnson must’ve been buildin’ toasters all his life.

Some of “them,” they say it was his second nature. Some of “them,” they say it was a gift. But I’ll be damned if there’s one man, woman or child who ever saw ol’ Henry Johnson work and didn’t swear the fella’ was a flat out toaster buildin’ man.

Well, Henry Johnson sat there at his workbench in the Big Bread Toaster Factory, and he put those toasters together like it was nobody’s business. And for a while that was plenty fine. But then, as tends to happen from time to time, everything went to shit.

* * *

“Outsourcing” was the term the Boys Upstairs used but from as far as anyone ‘round here could tell that just meant they were fired. See, the Boys Upstairs, they figured to build themselves a factory in a whole new place. Not just a new town but a new country. And in this new country the Boys Upstairs could hire six workers for what they were paying one here in America. And Brother, as far as they could tell, that just made good sense.

Then, a real peculiar thing happened. Someone, and “they” never can agree on who, but someone tipped ‘em off upstairs that this fella’ Henry Johnson was the real deal: a real toaster buildin’ man.

So it was that the Boys Upstairs decided to hold onto ol’ Henry Johnson. The Boys called it “efficiency” but from as far as anyone ‘round here could tell that just meant Henry could make ‘em money. But with the factory all closed down, well ol’ Mr. Johnson was sent to work at the head office out in The City. He sat in a funny little room called a cubicle and in his cubicle was a workbench. And at that work bench poor Mr. Johnson kept on working just like he always had, putting together toasters like it was nobody’s business.

Time went on and things seemed plenty fine for ol’ Henry Johnson. But then, as tends to happen from time to time, everything went to shit. The Boys Upstairs, they just ain’t in the business of leaving well enough alone and they figured poor Mr. Johnson could likely make ‘em a few extra bucks. The Boys, they sent out a press release all ‘bout “The man who defied outsourcing.” And they got ol’ Henry on the talk show circuit and before he knew it he was a real, big time celebrity and Big Bread Toasters had the kind of publicity that money just can’t buy.

Now Henry, he was of the stock that didn’t have much use for fame. He didn’t have much use for television appearances and press tours. He didn’t have much use for autograph signing and photograph taking. He didn’t have much use for hob knobbing and elbow rubbing, hand shaking and smile faking. No, about all Henry Johnson had much use for was toaster buildin’.

* * *

There, in the head office out in The City, as ol’ Mr. Johnson toiled away over his toasters, upstairs a plan was being hatched. The plan, it was just like all the others that came before. The plan, it was a plan to make a few more bucks for those folk that already had a few bucks to spare. The plan, it went something like this: a big, Pay-Per-View spectacular held at The City’s finest sporting arena. Henry Johnson would square off against six of Big Bread Toaster Company’s finest out-of-country workers in a half-hour toaster building contest. To the Boys Upstairs it was like charging people to watch a commercial. And brother, as far as they could tell, that just made good sense.

So the day came, and all across this fine country good, hardworking folk gathered together in their living rooms and at sporting bars to watch the main event. Good, hardworking folks crammed into The City’s finest sporting arena, not a seat went empty, and every one of ‘em was rooting for good, hardworking Henry Johnson.

The curtain came up, the announcer sounded off and ol’ Henry Johnson, well the man took a big bow. And I’d like to think that at least for a moment Mr. Johnson saw in himself what all the good, hardworking folk saw in him. Well, a moment would’ve been about all he had because after the announcer sounded off and the bows were taken, an old-fashioned steam whistle cut through the air like an axe. And the competition began.

At the outset things were looking a little rough for poor ol’ Henry Johnson. Those out-of-country workers, well you cold tell they were the cream of the crop. And while Henry’s heart was in it, sometimes that just ain’t enough. But then, well something peculiar happened. Some of “them,” they say he hit his stride. Some of “them,” they say he was possessed. Well, I ain’t exactly sure what to call it but looking into Henry Johnson’s eyes, there wasn’t any doubt that something just plain clicked.

Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and his jaw was set and he fit the heating coils inside the metal casings and connected the wires to the power source. Yessir, he was building those toasters alright, just like he always had. Like it was nobody’s business.

As the final seconds clicked down and the old-fashioned steam whistle cut through the air like and axe, there wasn’t an ounce of doubt concerning the winner. The good, hardworking folk all knew it. The cream of the crop workers from out-of-country knew it. The Boys Upstairs, well even a dense bunch like that knew it. And, in those last moments, I’m sure Henry Johnson knew it too. ‘Cause as he slumped over his workbench, right there in the middle of The City’s finest sporting arena, poor ol’ Henry Johnson had one helluva grin slapped ‘cross his face.

* * *

Some of “them,” they say it was a heart attack. Some of “them,” they say it was an aneurysm. Well, I sure ain’t no doctor and I couldn’t tell you one way or the other. All I know is that some folk, they just ain’t meant for this world. And I reckon’ a man like Henry Johnosn is one of those folk.

So, next time you remember, say a prayer for poor ol’ Henry Johnson. And when someone tells you there ain’t any real men left in the world, well you tell them you reckon’ that’s probably so. But then you tell them about that time, not so long ago, when the last of the real men made a stand. And brother, you tell them that the good Lord, he saved the best for last.